Poems

Borne in upon my mind this restful thought, Amid the whirl and chaos, error-wrought, That, come what may, In night or day, Slowly or fast, Nothing but Truth can last. " But what is false? "I cried, "and what is true? " Then came the answer back, so plain I knew: " Naught 's true but Love! Since God above Is Love and Light, Who seeks, shall find the right.

A nation's strife; a people's life! Freedom at length, through holy strength! Soon comes the Wrong, and holdeth strong; But Right comes last, and standeth fast. Without the Truth, from Heaven's ruth, Not right nor free, can mortals be.

On backward-looking son of time! The new is old, the old is new,— The cycle of a change sublime Still sweeping through. Take heart! The Master builds again; A charmed life old Goodness hath.

July —for you the songs are sung By birds the leafy trees among; With merry carolings they wake The meadows at the morning's break, And through the day the lisping breeze Is woven with their treetop glees. For you, the prattling, pebbly brooks Are full of tales like story-books.

But the Vine standeth out amid the frost; And after all, hath only this grace left, That it endures, in long, lone stedfastness, The winter through; and next year blooms again,— Not bitter for the torment undergone, Not barren for the fulness yielded up,— As fair and fruitful towards the sacrifice, As if no touch had ever come to it, But the soft airs of heaven and dews of earth; And so fulfils itself in love once more. KING.

For what contend the wise? For nothing less Than that pure faith dissolve the bonds of sense; The soul, restored to God by evidence Of things not seen,—drawn forth from their recess,— Rests there, and not in forms, her holiness; That faith, which to the patriarchs did dispense, Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence Was needful round men thirsting to transgress; That faith, more perfect still, with which the Lord Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill The temples of their hearts who, with His word Informed, were resolute to do His will, And worship Him in Spirit and in Truth. WORDSWORTH.

As children might, impatient of the school, Despise the letters, longing for the songs And stories that they catch the echoes of. The songs are written, but first, learn to spell! The books will keep,—but if we will not learn, We shall not read them when the right time comes, Or read them wrongly and confusedly.

Around Bethesda's healing bower, Waiting to hear the rustling wing, Which spoke the angel nigh, whose power Gave virtue to that holy spring, With patience, and with hope endued, Were seen the gathering multitude. Had they who watched and waited there Been conscious of the passing thought, With what unceasing, anxious care Would they that quick'ning flood have sought,— And with what fervency of Soul,— The Power Divine, to make them whole.

Smiling June, None too soon, Comes with heart of gold,— Thoughts to win, Far from sin, With the Truth of old. Still the same, Name and fame, As it was of yore; Firm and free Will it be, Henceforth, evermore.

Here I come! Here I come! And the grasses peep; The little white daisies, too, wake from their sleep. The soft pussy-willows, in velvet and fur, By the brookside are nodding and making a stir; And the meadow-lark singing a songful of cheer, For his happiest time is the Spring of the year.